The Lucky Cat
by LadySolitaire83
Summary: "Hello, Sherlock," she began, giving him a wary look. "Is that for a case?" Sherlock brings Molly a gift and invites her to the Christmas party at Baker Street. Written for the Twelve Days of Sherlolly (AO3).


**THE LUCKY CAT**

 **23 December 2016**

 **A/N: I really, really,** _ **really**_ **wanted to use the lucky cat from** _ **The Blind Banker**_ **in a Sherlolly fic. This fic also features some Series 4 speculation and a possible fix-it AU if our favourite pathologist doesn't survive the series. (#ProtectMollyHooper2k17) I'm pretty damn sure, though, that none of this will be canon. *shrugs***

 **I'm currently in a bad spell mental-health-wise, so my English and my writing aren't at their best (as if). So please keep that in mind when you're writing your reviews and constructive criticism. :)**

 **The rating has to do with mild (at least for me) sexual references. Nothing terribly graphic, but I wanna warn y'all, just in case.**

 **I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.**

* * *

A golden ceramic cat with red inner ears and a green bib–– _or is that supposed to be a scarf?_ ––greeted Molly when she opened the door. _Um, what the hell?_ Her eyes travelled from the figurine to the long, pale fingers that clutched it, up the outstretched wool-clad arm, and to the thin smile on her friend's face.

"Hello, Sherlock," she began, giving him a wary look. "Is that for a case?"

He frowned and knitted his eyebrows together, but he kept his arm up. "What? No!" He glanced at the ceramic cat in his hand and sighed. "It's for you."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "For me?" She stared at him for a moment before frowning. "Did you make a mess in the lab or something? Or did you make some interns cry?"

"No. No! I just…" He sighed. "Please just accept it."

The intense emotions in his eyes took her aback, so she turned her gaze on his gift instead. After a long moment, she reluctantly took it from his grasp. "A-all right. Thank you." Pursing her lips together, she looked up at the uncharacteristically silent detective. "Sherlock, you do know that I don't have East Asian ancestry, right?"

The furrows on his forehead returned, deeper than they were earlier, but they immediately smoothed out when she softly giggled. "Of course I do. That's not why I…" His hands flexing at his sides, he took a deep breath and looked at the floor for a moment. "I meant to give this to you as a Christmas present last year, but so many things happened that I didn't even get a chance to wrap it," he explained with a small chuckle. His expression turned contrite in a split second. "Then you were hurt, and I decided to give you plenty of time and space to recover. So we haven't had the chance to talk about things. And I, uh, wasn't sure if you'd talk to me."

 _Yes, it_ had _been an eventful year_ , she thought. Mycroft's PA whisked her off to a safe house after Moriarty's face appeared on all screens across the country, but she never saw the detective while she was there. She only regularly spoke with Anthea, who acted as liaison between her and Mycroft, and a couple of agents named Dunham and Bishop during the months she spent hidden somewhere up north. All she knew was that Mycroft and Mary dealt with the Moriarty problem while Sherlock helped them out from rehab. She was so isolated that she only found out about Rosie's birth when John sent her (via Anthea, of course) a photo of him, Mary, and the baby in the hospital.

"I would have talked to you if, you know, I weren't holed up in the middle of nowhere."

The relief in his smile reminded her of the tender expression on his face when they laid eyes on each other after he completed his treatment and she came back from the safe house. He nodded. "I also wasn't allowed to speak to someone other than my family and John and Mary for three months."

"Not to mention that I was in a coma for a couple of weeks."

She could still remember the anguish on his face, as well as the fear in his voice when he called her name, as she lay bleeding on the ground during the final confrontation with Culverton Smith. When she woke up from her coma two weeks later, one of the first things she saw was a note, where he apologised for taking drugs and fake-dating Janine for the Magnussen case and for getting her injured.

Cradling the ceramic cat in her arm, she reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Sherlock, it wasn't your fault," she assured him in a gentle voice. "You didn't start the shootout, and you didn't pull the trigger either. And you didn't detonate the bomb. I just happened to be in the wrong spot at the wrong time."

"But I––"

Her hand moved to cup his face. "I know that you've been mentally kicking yourself about it since I got hurt. Even if you didn't say it in your apology note, I knew. It was obvious in your _extreme_ politeness and silence since I recovered and got back to work. It's just not _you_ , and it makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel like I'm fragile when you and I both know that I'm not. Sure, bringing me coffee or takeaway at random times is lovely, but it's just further proof that you're trying to atone for a sin that you didn't commit." Lowering her hand to his, she interlaced her fingers through his twitching ones. "Listen to me, Sherlock: it wasn't your fault," she repeated in a firmer tone. "Please stop blaming yourself for what happened. I never did."

"So you forgive me?"

She let out a small sigh. "If it makes you feel better, yes." She smiled up at him and then let go of his hand. Clearing her throat, she clutched the ceramic cat to her chest before stepping aside. "Would you like to come in for tea?"

To her surprise, he shook his head. "Actually, do you have any plans for tonight?"

"Um, just a quiet dinner with my mum, stepdad, and sister––well, my stepsister." She looked round her front hallway. "I'd introduce you, but they're out at the moment." Her mother, Peggy, who lived in Canada but had insisted to stay with her while she recuperated, dragged her husband for some last-minute Christmas shopping, while Johanna went to see a few friends. "Why? Do you need me for a case or something?"

"No, not for a case. But I do need you." The way his eyes seemed to plead with her caused her heart to hammer in her chest. "For a Christmas party at Baker Street tonight," he added. "It's, uh, a last-minute thing."

"At what time? I still have to finish preparing for my family's dinner."

He hummed in consideration. "If you'd like, you may bring your family to the party. John and Mary are bringing Rosie, of course, as well as Harry. Lestrade is looking forward to snogging Donovan under the mistletoe. My parents will be there, so your mother and stepfather can chat with them. Mrs Hudson has asked me to play several songs too. And who knows? Perhaps your stepsister and Harry will hit it off!"

She raised an eyebrow. "How on earth did you deduce that Johanna is into women?"

"I ran into her at the hospital when I dropped off my note," he answered with a shrug. "She was heavily flirting with your doctor, who was showing all signs of sexual attraction towards your stepsister, so it wasn't a difficult leap."

"Wait, did you also sit with me for a while?" she asked something that had been bothering her for months. She saw the brief surprise on his face, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "I could've sworn I smelt your aftershave when I was sort of awake before I came out of the coma. You even held my hand and squeezed it every five minutes or so. You also talked about how Rosie liked to throw up on you and ruin your shirts, the case you'd just finished, the day we met, _that_ night, the day I assisted you in solving cases, and Redbeard, I think."

"Yes, yes, I did." He held his hands behind him and cleared his throat. "I suppose I just missed talking to you about cases and such. At the time, John and Mary were busy with Rosie, and Lestrade had a dinner date with Donovan. Mrs Hudson would just walk away from me if I tried telling her about cases, especially the gruesome ones. So I told you about events you'd missed as well as familiar and memorable stories to see if studies about comatose patients hearing things hold any water." He grinned at her. "Apparently, they do."

She waited for him to mention the bit about kissing her on the cheek and asking her to wake up and come back to him in a whisper before he left. But he said nothing about that, so she let it go.

"So, Molly, will you come to the party?"

She beamed up at him. "Of course I will. _We_ will be there. I'm sure my family would be thrilled to finally meet you and the rest of the Baker Street Bunch, as Johanna calls us." She fully expected the detective to scoff at the silly nickname.

To her surprise and delight, he chuckled in amusement. "I had to glare really hard at John so he wouldn't blog about that. I'm pretty sure, though, that Mary is giving us shirts with those words printed on them for Christmas."

"Oh, I can't wait to take a million photos of you in that shirt!" She giggled at his petulant pout. "I'm still surprised you agreed to host a Christmas party at your flat though. Were you blackmailed into it?"

"Nope," he replied, popping the 'p' as per usual. "Mary made an excellent point that we've all been through so much these past year and a half and that we need to 'let loose' for a night or two. It's also Rosie's first Christmas, so there's that. My parents are also in town, and my mother is _very_ persuasive." He heaved a long-suffering sigh and shrugged.

"Are you sure you want to spend hours with that many people? I mean, you know most of your guests, and they're not as many as John and Mary's wedding guests. But––"

"I'll be fine, Molly," he interrupted, a small smile dancing on his lips. "I'll try my best to behave tonight."

She gave a reluctant sigh. "Well, it's not really that, but if you're sure…" She softly gasped when he took a step towards her.

"Don't worry. I'll let you know if it gets bad," he assured her in an almost bored tone. "And I'd really like to speak with you in private tonight, if that's all right?" His voice had changed, dropping a few octaves.

"Yeah, of course, sure. About what again?"

"This whole business with the drugs, Janine, Magnussen, Moriarty, and Smith, amongst other things."

She wondered why he looked uncomfortable and shifty. "What time does the party start?" she asked.

"Around 6 or 6.30. See you then."

"Yep, see you then," she replied with a smile and a nod. She raised the cat figurine. "Thanks for this."

"You're welcome, Molly Hooper." He grinned brightly before giving her a tender peck on the cheek. Then he turned to leave.

She was about to close her flat door when she heard him call her name. "Yes?"

"Could you wear your royal blue dress?"

* * *

Much later that night, Molly's royal blue dress lay crumpled next to her skull pants on the floor of Sherlock's bedroom. The rest of their clothes were scattered all over the room. The pathologist and the detective lay panting on his bed. When he rose, she watched his bare arse–– _because, of course, he can't be arsed to put his boxers back on_ , she thought––as he moved towards the en-suite bathroom. Pulling up the blanket to her chest, she stared at the ceiling and wondered how long it would take for him to be ready again.

It had been such a wonderful night filled with good food, laughter, and love. Her mother insisted on bringing black forest cake that became a huge hit with everyone, including Sherlock. Mycroft and Anthea also stopped by, and the look on his face after Rosie spat up on his expensive three-piece suit made everyone laugh. Johanna and Harry did hit it off and, after being told that John's sister was a recovering alcoholic, Molly's stepsister plied her with bitter lemon. When they exchanged presents, she squealed in delight at the handcrafted queen bee necklace that Sherlock gave her, while he sweetly thanked her for the skull-printed black ceramic mug and the black double-face merino scarf that she got him.

But, out of the incredible things that happened during the party, she never expected to hear Sherlock say that he loved her––let alone end up naked in his bed.

She turned to smile at him when he left the bathroom. "Hi," she said as she rolled onto her side.

Grinning back at her, he slid under the covers and turned over to face her. "Hi." Wrapping his arms round her waist, he pulled her close and snogged her.

"Has everybody left?" she asked once they came up for air.

He nodded. "Mary stuck a Post-it note on the bathroom door. According to her, they started leaving when they heard rhythmic banging against the bedroom door." He gave her a cheeky smile, making her blush.

"Oh!" she uttered with a giggle, remembering how her arse hit the door each time she moved to meet his thrusting fingers. She let out a soft gasp and bit her bottom lip. "Did… Did they hear us too?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Quite likely. We weren't exactly quiet."

Her hands flew to cover her face, while he chuckled. "My mum! My mum heard me _moan_ during sex! God, I don't think I can look my stepdad in the eye when I see him again."

"You're an accomplished adult woman in your 30s. And you were engaged. They _must_ know that you've had sex," he said, gently rubbing her bare back.

Sighing, she moved a hand to his bicep and the other underneath her head. "I'm just a bit embarrassed that our families and friends heard us having sex. On Christmas Eve too!"

Sherlock removed his hand from her waist and turned to pick up his trousers from the floor. He pulled his mobile out of the pocket and turned to face her again. He looked positively delicious, with his dishevelled hair and kiss-swollen lips, even by the low light of his phone's display, making her grin inwardly. "It's half past midnight now, so it's Christmas Day," he said as he put his phone next to his pillow. "And it was around 11.42pm when we started this, so…" Wrapping his arm round her again, he leant forward until his mouth was only a hair's breadth away from hers. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

Their lips came together in a kiss that was tenderer and sweeter than their first (that is, the one that led to her riding his fingers against the bedroom door). "Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes," she finally responded in a husky voice when they pulled apart.

He ran his thumb along her cheek. "I love you," he said, a smile that she could now only describe as loving forming on his lips. "Just in case you still can't believe that this is happening."

Her heart swelled with joy upon hearing those words again. It was even better the third time––or tenth, if she counted the eight times he murmured them as he came down from his climax. "I love you too."

He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him. "I know I said we were going to talk about everything that happened since June last year."

Snaking an arm underneath him, she slung the other over his stomach and rested her head on his shoulder. She also threw a leg over his. "Well, that's how you persuaded me to come to the party. You don't want to talk about that stuff anymore?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. But I'm going to need a bit of rest before we can go again." He waggled his eyebrows at her, making her giggle. "I'd really like another round, if I want to survive discussing these things, certain aspects of which can be ugly. And we can always talk about things in the morning… unless you're not staying for the night."

She looked up at him, knitting her eyebrows at the uncertainty in his voice. "Of course I am. There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

His eyes lit up. "Excellent."

She reached up to kiss him on the lips. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, my darling Molly."

* * *

 _I didn't want to use the battery-operated plastic figurine from TBB and I didn't want to worry about power cords, so I chose the solar-powered ceramic one from Wikipedia._

 _I wanted to explore the Molly-is-sent-to-the-safe-house idea from_ Hello _. But this isn't part of the_ I Am Yours _series._ _And I also wanted Sherlock to go to rehab, because he really needs to._

 _I've heard of some comatose patients hearing/remembering/touching/tasting/smelling before they come out of the coma, and I thought it'd be cool to use that. I've seen a study about patients with severe traumatic brain injury, but I used the NHS coma page as reference the most._

 _If y'all want to click links to my references and see the lucky cat photo I used, feel free to go to my AO3 profile (please see my FFN profile page). Thanks._

 _So what do you think? Hate it? Like it? Love it?_


End file.
